The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  The buzz in the tent grew louder.

  “Do not fear. Caesar made clemency fashionable,” he said with a disarming smile. “I am sure Octavian will follow his example.” He looked around. “He will reserve his wrath for the Queen and me, no others.”

  In his present mood, he would probably welcome that wrath, as some sort of deserved punishment.

  “And now”—he gestured toward two of his attendants, who dragged a chest across the ground and flung open the lid—“I have raided one of our treasure ships to provide for you. Take the money, take the gold and silver, as payment for your services and as protection for your future.”

  He had helped himself to the treasure ship? Without consulting me? I stared at him.

  The men were shaking their heads, refusing the gift. Antony kept urging them, and they finally filed up—does any sane man refuse gold for long? Some of them were weeping, and for that I did not begrudge them the money. Surely Antony would be touched by seeing that in the eyes of others he still held his honor.

  That night he finally came to my—our—chamber. He had discharged his duty, had said honorable good-byes, and must now strip himself of all that remained, and prepare for the long journey ahead.

  He had laid aside his mask when the guests departed, and now was solemn and subdued. “I am a man in exile,” he said. “I have no place to go, except to hide in my wife’s country, and beg for shelter.” He sank down on the edge of our bed, and it creaked under his weight. “I am a Roman driven from Roman shores.”

  I was weary of this; I had no more words to dissuade him. “Come to bed,” was all I said.

  “I am no longer a leader of Romans; now I have truly become what they called me: an easterner, a foreigner. Rome has cast me out.” As he spoke he untied his sandals, bending over so low I could hardly hear him. Slowly he removed his formal clothes by himself; since his defeat he had not even allowed Eros in his presence. Then he lay down and stared up at the ceiling.

  I rose to the bait. “Aren’t you forgetting Canidius and his fifty thousand men?” It was reported that, as arranged, Canidius had begun withdrawing the army to make the trek into Asia. “And the five legions in Cyrenaica, and the three in Syria? You are hardly a Roman without followers.”

  “Ahhh.” His voice was a long sigh.

  He was clearly exhausted, for he fell deeply asleep in an instant. I was relieved; it was the first time I could relax my vigil over him. I was still worried that he might try to emulate Cato, or Brutus, or Cassius. His polite performance tonight had not fooled me.

  It would have been good if he could have been allowed to sleep, to repair his torn spirits. It would have been kind of the gods to grant us that. But in the darkest hour of night, we were awakened by a messenger with urgent news.

  Canidius was here.

  “Send him in.” I pulled on a decent covering gown and helped Antony to throw on a robe. The news must be terrible. Canidius was supposed to be far away with the army.

  Well, let us hear it. Let all the blows rain down on us. Let every disaster empty itself on our heads.

  Antony had pulled himself to his feet, leaning on a tent pole. He was groggy after being fetched from the depths of sleep so soon.

  Canidius came in, holding a lantern. His hair was wild, his face sweaty, his garments stained. “Forgive me, Imperator,” he said, kneeling.

  Antony touched the top of his head. “Yes. I do. Whatever it is. It doesn’t matter.” He reached out his hand and made Canidius rise.

  “The army has surrendered to Octavian,” he said. “I fled for my life.”

  “Many deaths?” asked Antony, as if he wanted there to be: more men to heap on his pile of remorse for his failures.

  Canidius shook his head. “None.”

  Now Antony was brought up short. “What?”

  “No deaths. There was no fighting. We had marched a little way toward Thrace when Octavian sent a column to negotiate a surrender. The men—the centurions—knew they could hold out for good terms, that Octavian would be anxious to avoid fighting. And so they bargained, with a skill that would make a rug merchant proud. In the end the centurions were able to extract a promise from Octavian to preserve the six historic legions, like the Fifth, the Alaudae, and the Sixth, Ferrata, the Ironclad, and—”

  At the sound of the precious names, Antony gave a piercing cry like a wounded animal. “No! No!”

  “The rest will be absorbed into other legions in the usual way,” Canidius finished. “And they will get their settlement, and their land in Italy—”

  Antony turned to me, ignoring Canidius. “Yes, that’s what they want,” he said. “Remember the old soldier, the one after Parthia, the one who said, when we visited him, that he wanted his plot of land in Italy, not a foreign place? The old veteran—O gods, did he die at Actium? I shouldn’t have taken him on board the ship! If he’d remained, he’d be going back to Italy!” With that, he threw himself on the bed and beat his chest.

  Canidius looked at me, his eyes wide.

  “He has been this way since the battle,” I said. “Do not be alarmed.”

  But Canidius was. “Madam,” he said, “this is the saddest spectacle I have witnessed in all the war.”

  Finally Antony sat up, brushing the tears from his eyes. “Forgive me,” he said. “But the old man—” He shook his head.

  “I had to flee,” said Canidius. “I could not expect Octavian to show mercy to me.” He paused. “But you should know the truth. I stayed with them until the terms were complete. Octavian’s version, which is part of his agreement to flatter the troops, is that they went on bravely fighting until they were deserted by their cowardly commander.”

  That was a bad choice of words—but how was he to know?

  Antony gave a sigh, but said nothing.

  “But there was no fighting. And the troops made peace only because they knew there was now no way for you to pay them. They were forced into it.”

  “Because I had deserted them, you mean?” Antony yelled. “Run off with the treasury?”

  “I didn’t say that. It was just a fact. Their paymaster was gone. Octavian was near.”

  Now Antony glared at me. “What was that you said, about Canidius and his troops? You’ll have to change that.” He shrugged. “It’s all over. It’s all over. Come, my last companions, we have a sea voyage to make tomorrow.”

  After Canidius had been shown out, Antony flung himself facedown on the bed and did not stir, lying like a dead man.

  It took nine days to sail from Taenarum to the shores of North Africa. We had to give a wide birth to Crete because it now belonged to Octavian, and we could not put in there. Canidius went with us, as did several of Antony’s die-hard friends (he still had them, in spite of his contentions), including one who had once served Brutus, offering to die in his stead, and then clinging loyally to Antony after being spared. I hoped he did not mention Brutus and his “noble” end, which might spur Antony on to imitate it.

  Antony had quelled his outbursts and now entered into a phase that was even more disturbing: a stony, stoic, disinterested manner. He was alert, pleasant, attentive, but all with a deadly detachment that was chilling. Halfway into the voyage he had suddenly demanded to be taken to Paraetonium, at the westernmost edge of Egypt, where there was a small military outpost. He claimed he needed to “inspect” it—but what was there to inspect? It was nothing but a cluster of mud buildings, a small landing, and a lot of sand, heat, and scorpions. In nearby Cyrenaica, we still had five legions. I knew he wished to hide there, out of sight of mankind, and lick his wounds. Or inflict the wound that would end all wounds.

  But what could I do? Forbid him? Had I not been the one reminding him he was still a general who commanded legions? Now he claimed he wished to visit a military post. Stay with him, guard him? It was demeaning for both of us, and it was crucial for me to return to Alexandria before the dreadful news of Actium had reached it. I dared not delay.

  We made landfall
just a short way from Paraetonium; the blinding white rocks and sand seemed to radiate heat. Baking in the sun were the low, brown buildings, with a drooping palm or two providing no shade at all at noon. Motley, shedding camels dozed around what passed for a well.

  Antony silently gathered up his belongings and put on his uniform, as if he were going to a grand ceremony. Attired thus, he looked like his old self—if you did not look into his eyes. And the beak on his helmet prevented it.

  Alone in the cabin, we faced one another.

  “Antony, inspect your post here, then come back aboard,” I said. “We will wait.” It would hardly take very long for him to see what there was to see.

  “No,” he said. “I need to stay. I will follow. I promise.”

  “When?”

  “That I cannot say.”

  “Please don’t delay! You are needed in Alexandria. The children—”

  “Give them this.” He stripped off his silver military awards carelessly and dropped them into my hand. “Tell them what they were for.” He paused. “Now I must go.”

  “No good-bye?” I could not believe we could part like this, stiff strangers.

  “It is only for a little while,” he said cryptically. Then he bent and kissed me, a formal kiss that turned into a real one.

  As he and his two friends descended onto the shore, I saw that he still had his sword, as well as his dagger. He had not given those to me for the children’s remembrance. Obviously he thought he still had need of them.

  We were two days’ sail west of Alexandria, and I needed that time to decide what to do. With Antony gone, my anxious watching could stop, and I felt an immense, sad relief as we sailed away from Paraetonium. I stood watching it recede, although the dazzling light made my eyes ache and finally the site vanished in a blaze of white. I knew he would be wrestling with his own fate in that lonely outpost, but he would have to do it alone, as ultimately we all do. Others become superfluous annoyances when our supreme hour of decision comes.

  From the time I was very young, I felt I had a sort of power to predict things. Often I would get a nudging feeling that this would happen rather than that, and when it turned out that way, I would tell myself that the gods had granted me the power of prophesy. But now I knew that what I possessed instead was an acute ability to weigh factors and make informed guesses—perhaps a more valuable trait for a ruler. At this moment, however, I did not know, I could not guess, which way Antony would go. All the factors seemed to weigh evenly, would tear and pull at him equally on both sides. Selfishly, I wished that he would ignore the beguiling sword and the Roman way, and decide to live, taking his stand with me. But not if it would utterly destroy him as a man.

  And so I gave him to the gods; I mourned him in my heart as if he had already taken the Roman course. He must be dead to me now if I was to do what I must.

  I knew with a certainty (not prophesy, but shrewd guess) that Octavian had sympathizers even in Alexandria. There always are people who wish for change, who are dissatisfied with the king. I had once been told a very hard truth: There is no one whose death is not a relief to someone. That is triply so for a monarch. Well, I must strike at them before they struck at me, which they would feel free to do as soon as the news of Actium reached them. I still had a little time.

  I must sail into Alexandria alone; the rest of the bedraggled ships should lag behind, lest their condition shout the truth. And I would sail into the harbor with the ship garlanded as if we had been victorious. Yes! I would not betray, by so much as a flicker, what had really happened. Then I would speed into the palace and have my enemies—who had doubtless gained strength in my absence—rounded up and dispatched.

  And Artavasdes, our enemy. Even before his capture, he had been in league with Octavian. His master would doubtless restore him to his throne in Armenia, and thus our clemency in sparing him would be thrown back into our faces.

  Well, I could prevent that. He would never live to laugh as he ascended the steps of his throne again, as he had smirked in ascending the steps to us at the triumph. It was good Antony was not here to stop me.

  HERE ENDS THE EIGHTH SCROLL.

  The Ninth Scroll

  78

  The Antonia, her gilded stern scrubbed to shining once more, her purple sails brushed free of salt, her bow garlanded, sailed triumphantly into the harbor of Alexandria. I had stationed my attendants on deck in colorful attire, and threatened them with dire punishment if they did not wave and sing joyfully. For myself, I put on my royal robes and headdress, and stood under the mast where I could be seen by all.

  Never has the sight of the white, pure Lighthouse been more beautiful to me, calling me home after what had been a very long and perilous journey. My limbs ached with the weariness of it, but I must appear fresh. And the tall serenity of the Lighthouse, unmoving in spite of the waves dashing across its base, gave me strength.

  The shores were lined with crowds, cheering wildly and throwing flowers that floated out on the water, little dots of red, yellow, purple, blue. The palace, on its grassy peninsula, beckoned coolly. Behind the shore rose the cubes of the buildings, as white as salt. I closed my eyes and made a vow.

  I must keep it, must keep Egypt; the Ptolemies could not forfeit it as punishment for Roman failures in the field. I must do whatever it took to keep it for my children: humble myself to Octavian, abdicate in favor of my son, make other alliances that would keep Rome from swallowing us, kill my enemies. I must even, if necessary, kill myself. Anything. No price was too high. I could not let nine generations of Ptolemies end with me, let the last of Alexander’s heirs be vanquished and vanish from living history. Anything. And I must not flinch.

  We docked at the royal landing stage; I sent messengers out immediately to post proclamations of the victory (which I had hurriedly composed in my cabin) all over the city. After waving, greeting the crowd, we were whisked into the palace and out of sight.

  Now the real work could begin.

  I climbed the wide steps up to the inner hall of the palace, where Mardian, Olympos, and the children were lined up waiting. I threw protocol aside just as Antony had stripped off his medals and threw my arms around them, seized with joy at seeing them. Getting my arms all the way around Mardian was proving more and more difficult; in his excitement, Olympos forgot to be unemotional, and even kissed me; Alexander almost knocked me down in his effusiveness. Little Philadelphos clung to my legs, and Antyllus bowed smartly.

  Standing a little aloof was Selene, who gave a shy smile. And behind her—my heart stopped when I saw Caesarion.

  While I was gone, he had turned into a man. Somewhere between being fourteen and now months past sixteen, he had passed into adulthood.

  Now—and even his movements were different—he came toward me. I had to look up at him. He took my hand in his, and it was a big hand, which utterly covered mine.

  “Welcome, Mother,” he said. His voice had changed, too.

  Now I knew it more than ever. I must do anything to preserve his rights, his throne. Literally anything. My son, Egypt’s new king.

  “Why, Caesarion!” I said, so stunned by this new self I was at a loss for words. “I—have missed you,” I finally said. I would never stoop to saying, My, how you have grown.

  “And I, you. I am so happy it is over, and you are back. Tell us, what happened? The victory—how grand was it? How many ships sunk? Where is Octavian? Is he dead? I hope so!” He grinned.

  “Don’t tire your mother with all these questions,” Olympos said sharply. I knew then that he had guessed. Well, soon he would know.

  “That’s all right,” I assured Caesarion. “Let us retire into our private quarters, and there I will tell you all. All…”

  Safely inside our most private withdrawing rooms, the doors bolted, all attendants dismissed, I told them the dreadful truth. They took it silently and unresisting. Only Caesarion looked dismayed, and kept asking for diagrams to illustrate what had happened, which squadron went wher
e, which legion was deployed where….

  Finally Mardian asked, “Where is Antony?” From the way he asked it, I knew he thought Antony was dead. But surely he did not think I was so self-controlled I could have concealed it this long!

  “He is…” How to describe it without adding to his dishonor? “…at Paraetonium. He wishes to inspect the legions to the west at Cyrenaica.”

  “Oh no!” said Mardian.

  “What is it?”

  “The legions deserted to Octavian. Right out from under their commander! Poor Scarpus had to leave; he is probably sheltering at Paraetonium. We had heard that Octavian had appointed Cornelius Gallus to take over the legions, and he was on his way.”

  “The poem-writing soldier?” I asked. Now he could sit on the sandy coast and compose poems about his glorious master and the fall of Antony.

  “The same,” said Mardian. “So Scarpus and Antony must be together.”

  Just what Antony needed. Two deserted generals together, sharing wine and misery in a mud hovel. Now my fear leapt back upon me. I remembered King Juba and Petreius, in their lurid double suicide—and in the same setting, too.

  “He will be in Alexandria shortly,” I said, with conviction. My anguish about him must be kept for myself alone. “But before the news leaks out, there are things we must do. The legions stationed here are still loyal?”

  “Yes,” said Mardian.

  “Then…”

  My commands were carried out. The “Octavians” had been conveniently vocal in their cheers for him and their mutterings against us; it made it easy to identify and arrest them. We discovered quite a storehouse of weapons and piles of incriminating correspondence. The leaders were executed, their properties seized. There had been a sizable number of Octavians, and it disturbed me more than I liked to admit. In my very own city…I knew everyone had enemies, but still…The ingrates!